


Feathers

by applethief



Category: Pathfinder: Kingmaker (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, canonically this romance is slooow burn but that ain't gonna work for this lad, most of the other characters appear/are mentioned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2019-10-21 03:45:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17635391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applethief/pseuds/applethief
Summary: This heavy body feels and suffers and bleeds and Tristian has always endured its quirks with detachment.





	1. Smolder, seed

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my primary tongue so apologies for occasional clunkiness! This chapter doesn't really have any weird stuff in it but there will be sex and violence and all that later so there it is.
> 
> I love the Tristian romance as it is but this will probably be a bit of a more explosive take on it. I mean honestly it's kinda weird to pine for someone for 5 years.

Mae stands on the precipice in front of the stag lord's fallen fortress. He shades his eyes with his hand. The heavy fog is lifting to reveal fertile valleys, acres upon acres. It is nice and flat, perfect for the cornerstone of a new kingdom. His blade is still stained with blood, but he supposes the seed of many a kingdom was nourished thus. 

Tristian, his found healer narrowly snatched from the teeth of a beast, approaches him with a slight nod. "I've seen to Kressle's wounded men. What of your own injuries?"

Mae grimaces. "Just scratches." Tristian rests a hand on his arm anyway. A wave of warmth sieves through their link and Mae feels less weary.

He's an easygoing priest, this one. Not at all the dogmatic stick in the mud Mae has come to expect from religious figures. Mae reckons it's because Tristian simply is kind; it is not something he needs to strive to be because his goddess commanded it thus. 

Never once has Mae felt Tristian look upon his protruding fangs and his ash-coloured skin with fear or dislike and at first Mae thought he may simply be a naive and trusting fool. But Tristian is an uncannily precise judge of character. Mae suspects this is what has allowed Tristian to go about his journeys safely; it's certainly not his combat prowess or cleverness.

He has a story he keeps to himself, of course. All his companions do. Mae has one, too. Tristian is a poor liar and his details don’t always line up, but Mae has never pushed the subject; if people want to leave the past in the past, that’s fine with Mae. 

Their rapport was established quickly and Mae responds to Tristian's occasional thoughtful musings with his own sense of right, and Tristian curiously tries offered drinks and listens to his heavily exaggerated stories of comical exploits with rapt, often confused, attention. And Tristian has hair which looks soft to touch. Bright, warm eyes. Pale, smooth skin which blushes rosy red. Mae would love to see how soft his skin is. See how far that rosy red spreads. 

Tristian seems to have similar thoughts. Or at least thoughts which have a somewhat similar intention though Mae doubts they are as crude as his own daydreams. When Mae colourfully embroiders more salacious exploits with outrageous allegories, Tristian looks confused until Regongar takes it upon himself to clarify; "means they fucked, choir boy," to which Tristian responds with a red-cheeked, exasperated "ah... Mae." Tristian needs time, perhaps, to warm up to the idea of such things. 

 

Mae sweeps his hands over the landscape with a flourish. "Looks like a good place to settle, really. Don't you think, Tris?"

The priest blinks at the nickname, then smiles with a nod. "I don’t know much about such things, but the land seems plentiful. Farmers could easily till fields here, and there is the river to facilitate trade." 

"And the cursed fog is dispersing. What does that mean for my wandering priest?"

"I... There fog may be gone, but it is merely one strange curse among many others. And I am in your debt for saving my life.” 

“You’ve repaid it in plenty, my dear. I’ve lost count of the times your spells have kept me from bleeding out.” 

“Well… regardless, I’ve no desire to be continuing my travels just yet. Do you... wish me to leave?" 

"No, no! I actually… really don’t. Don't particularly wish to see you off, no." 

"And I don't relish the thought of leaving your side," Tristian blurts out, his cheeks growing increasingly rosy. "That is, I... think we can achieve much good here and I've come to treasure you- your good heart and kind soul!"

"And my handsome mug and good sword arm."

"No! I mean, undoubtedly they are fine qualities but..." 

Mae laughs quietly. "I'm sorry, I've teased you too much." 

"Oh... Mae." Tristian puffs.

“I’m glad you’ll stay. I’ve come to value your steady, gentle presence. I’ve a surplus of hotheads. Myself included.”

They watch the valley for a minute. An autumn breeze catches them and Tristian shivers involuntarily. Mae absentmindedly drapes his cape over Tristian's shoulders and the priest mumbles a quiet, surprised thank you. Mae shrugs because it really is nothing. 

"I'll need an insignia. A crest." 

"A boar, perhaps. Amiri would be proud and pleased." 

"Yes! A boar!" The ruler of the Stolen Land exclaims. "Yes. Welcome to Tuskdale, my dear Tris." 

 

Jamandi Aldori’s mansion is both like and unlike Nyrissa’s abode. Sprawling, confusing hallways and large, airy rooms. But it is warm, and there are people everywhere. In Nyrissa’s realm, one could be lost for days and not see a single soul.

Tristian blanches when Mae offers his hand. He feels gently fuzzy from drink and Octavia titters and pushes him into Mae’s arms, so he lets himself be spun in joyful celebratory dance a few times with the newly anointed Baron; Mae towers over him and his hands on Tristian's waist makes his heart feel like a huddled bird, cupped gently in those calloused fists. Then Mae lifts him off his feet in something in between an embrace and a dance step and when Tristian clumsily lands on his feet again, he steps away with an exhilarated laugh. 

Mae follows him into a quieter corner. There is both joy and concern in his eyes. "I apologise, I got carried away." 

"It is hard not to get swept up in your theatrics." Tristian is breathless but cheerful. "But I think you can find better partners to dance with than I. Octavia seems keen." 

"It would not quite be the same, but I'll let you catch your breath." As Mae steps away he gently runs a thumb along Tristian's chin and winks. Tristian feels fuzzy in a way drink doesn't make him feel, and his strange heart suddenly feels so big and loud he's certain Mae, everyone, must hear it, see it.

 

The difficult thing is that Mae cares. 

This heavy body feels and suffers and bleeds and Tristian has always endured its quirks with detachment. But now, Tristian barely has time to identify that he is cold, or uncomfortable, in pain, fearful or tired before Mae has made things easier. It becomes easy to not want to endure around him. To need. 

And Mae is unwittingly showing him this body can also feel things that are nice and enjoyable. Want, and ache in a way that is pleasurable. Mae enjoys things and shares without a second thought. 

But to Tristian every moment that should be joyful and pleasant is a sweet edge, quickly marred by thoughts of what he has done, what he must do, how undeserving he is of all this, of Mae's regard. 

Mae is swept away by politics for the rest of the evening while Tristian ponders that he must keep his heart closed. If the nymph finds his smoldering feelings in there, she'll turn them into a drowning, consuming fire.


	2. Larks

Snow has started drifting in and Tuskdale is preparing for its first winter. Unfinished building projects are receiving hastily cobbled together roofs and oiled skins are pulled taut over windows yet to be paned. But Mae has urgent business he must see to before the snow drowns the roads entirely. There are reports of unusual troll activity in the Narlmarches. In public, Mae said “It is my duty to keep my land safe, so I shall ride out and investigate.” His speech was delivered with feeling and flourishes. 

In private, Mae had scoffed. “Is trudging through frozen marshlands still part of my responsibilities? Surely there’s people for that. Don’t trolls hibernate, anyway?” 

Tristian had smiled. “My lord is thinking of bears, perhaps.” To which Mae had grimaced and said “don’t you my-lord me, Tris.” 

Mae might complain and jest, but in the end he always does what is right, kind and merciful. And so, rations were packed and horses saddled. A small contingent of soldiers was gathered, armed with flasks of acid. Tents larger and more cumbersome than their old little things are loaded into a sled pulled by a stout, hairy pony. 

Though Mae is a baron now, Tristian does not think their journeys are all that different from when they first met. Other people may saddle horses and pack rations, but once they leave the capital, they are not chancellor, priest, baron, your grace or my lord. They are simply Tristian and Mae. The wilderness doesn't care about titles. Some of the people who swing swords at them might, but most do not. Even the soldiers drop the pretences a bit, though they are proud to serve a baron such as Mae and defer to him gladly. 

 

Mae approaches Tristian with a bundle in his arms and Tristian can't help but smile brightly at him. “I just wanted to make sure the healers are well organised and have everything they need before we leave.”

"You value taking care of others more than you care for yourself, so that burden falls to me," Mae muses and shakes out the bundle.

"Oh! I do not mean to be a burden-" 

"You’re anything but! I was making a jest and phrased myself carelessly, I'm sorry. Stand still." Tristian obeys and Mae drapes the bundle, now a thick, but finely woven wool cloak over him. He fastens it with a brooch shaped to resemble a boar. Tristian isn't sure if the warmth he feels is the cloak or Mae's proximity. "You get cold fast. I'm not letting you freeze your ass off while we trudge through the snowy, shitty swamps."

Tristian runs a thumb over the embroidered hem. The fabric feels warm, somehow, and he can feel tingles of magic under his finger. In golden thread against the deep red-brown wool, birds flit about among abstract foliage. They sing, or carry sticks and berries in their beaks. "Ah... larks."

"A wish for spring to come fast." Mae's smile fades. "You look pale all of a sudden. I'm sorry if I've caused offense..."

Tristian plays with the hem and avoids Mae’s eyes. 

The lark could be his, not hers. When Nyrissa speaks of Mae, she sneers “the boar.” So Tristian gave Mae the boar before she could poison it, make it a pet name. Now it’s a shield, a proud emblem. It's a small act of defiance, but there is power in names. He's not sure he can be so bold for his own sake, but… he could try. 

"I was simply noticing how the embroideries are so fine and detailed. It must have been expensive."

"Well, I am a baron now. And you are a chancellor and my very treasured advisor. So we should dress somewhat fine; it's part of the performance. Though in truth, they’re the tailor’s gift as much as mine; when he heard who the cloak was for, he insisted I tell him what animals would suit you. Your good work has endeared you to the people."

Tristian can barely keep the stab of pain and guilt from showing on his face, and he doesn't think he succeeds entirely in concealing how little he deserves the praise when he replies. "Ah... I'm simply carrying out your wishes, or my best guess at them."

"I'm lucky we are of such same mind, then. Sometimes I have to argue for hours with Valerie and Regongar. And look! There are enchantments stitched into the hem to stave of the worst of the frost." 

Tristian does smile at that, genuinely. “Why birds?”

“I don’t know. I always think of songbirds when I see you.” Mae scratches the back of his head.

"Thank you, it's a beautiful and very kind gift.” It is true. Mae sees his friends and gifts them useful or joyful things all the time. Amiri has such a collection of outrageous swords by now. “You love your companions well, Mae."

"Of course!" Mae leans in and whispers, as if they are conspiring. "But you are my favourite."

Tristian blushes and Mae will never be sick of watching those pale cheeks turn rosy. "Ah... you are jesting again, of course."

"Not at all.” 

“Then I don’t fully understand, though I’ve… thought about it a lot. Thought about you. What you say to me is not very dissimilar to what you'd say to Regongar or Octavia. I’m not sure what you want but I sometimes get the impression you want… more. More of me.” Tristian watches him intently, his gaze meeting Mae’s with such direct honesty, his initial flippant response melts away. He clicks his tongue and carefully places a hand on Tristian’s elbow.

“I do. Do you want more?”

“I… do. Forgive me, I do not mean anything about it, but from your stories, it sounds like you have a lot of experience with these things. My whole life has been devoted to servitude, so I fear I would disappoint you." Tristian carefully knits their hands together. His fingers are so cold; Mae will need to make sure the fool priest has gloves before they set off. 

“Impossible. We can go as slow as you like, Tris. I’ll even stop flirting with other people, if that’s less confusing.” 

Tristian stares at him for a few moments and Mae starts half hoping for a kiss, but then Tristian looks away awkwardly. "You should do as you please, my lord."

Mae shakes his head with a grimace. “When you call me ‘my lord,’ it’s such a boner killer.”

“It kills bones?” Tristian exclaims, taken aback. His head tilts sideways.

“No, it… you know what. Sure. It’s a turn of phrase. Means something like... uncomfortable.” Mae is not about to explain boners to Tristian without some practical application. 

“Bones dying would be more than uncomfortable. I don't understand.” 

“All for the best, to be honest. I’m off to oversee the rest of the packing. Join us as soon as you’re ready, Tris.” 

“Of course.” 

Their hands slide apart reluctantly and Mae can’t resist planting a quick, dry kiss on Tristian’s knuckles. Tristian blushes profusely, huddles his hands into his cloak and walks into town with a last nod and a “my lord.”


	3. Daggers, burrowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some fairly graphic descriptions of injures! It's also pretty angsty and I promise the next one will be fluffier. Like a nice pancake. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!!

They manage to dig up some good leads on the troll situation, and have the beasts pinpointed in the dwarven ruins. The situation with the kobold Tartuk seems odd, even to Tristian; he is fairly certain this isn't Nyrissa's handiwork. But the snowfall is becoming increasingly heavy much earlier than anticipated, and they can’t risk the journey deeper into the Narlmarches. 

Mae also decides to take his dream-nymph up on her offer to visit her, despite Tristian advising against it as much as he dares.

“I saved her flowers, why would she hurt me?”

“Fey can be very fickle. I just have… a bad feeling.” 

Mae blows him off. “You worry too much! I’ll see what it’s about. She seems to hold some power over the land, I could use such an ally.” And so he takes off into the wilderness, alone. 

 

Tristian spends the few hours of Mae’s absence pacing restlessly until Amiri tells him to “sit down or I’ll knock you down. Mae’s fine. He’s got a spine made of rocks and he knows how to use that tiny sword of his.”

“You worry, too.” 

She blows raspberries. “Worrying’s for airheaded, simpering lilies in skirts.” She shoots him a pointed look which makes it clear he is the airheaded, simpering lily in skirts. “He survives, we’re good. He dies, I go hit stuff elsewhere and you go… pray elsewhere. It’s how things go.” But she relentlessly polishes the metal of her sword as if she really would rather be hitting stuff right now. 

They’re a few companions richer, travelling now with a terse ranger and his hound, and a gnomish cartographer. Mae already likes them, though the ranger says not much at all, and the gnome picks apart his every decision and Tristian is finding it hard to gently deflect his arguing. Now, the gnome’s eyebrows have been raised for so long Tristian is starting to wonder if that is simply what he looks like. “Is it common for the ruler of this land to simply traipse off into the wilderness with no guards or company whatsoever? It does not bode well for the stability of this country.”

“Course not! These be uh… special circumstances. You wouldn’t get it anyway. Local traditions.” Amiri grumbles, annoyed.

“Right, so when do you send out reinforcements when your baron doesn’t come back? Who’s even second in command here? Please don’t tell me it’s your airheaded priest.” 

“Nuh uh! It’s me for sure!” Amiri shouts. 

“Oh dear, that’s even worse.” 

“Well, it’s more of a democratic process,” Octavia shoots in. 

“You know, sending someone after him might be a good idea-” Tristian tries quietly.

“And you take that thing back about the airhead! Are you part of this tribe, gnome? You don’t get to insult my tribe if you’re not part of it!” 

“Amiri, come on! Relax!” Linzi interjects.

“He’s returning,” the ranger interrupts their bickering. 

Indeed, there he is on the edge of the light of their camp. Tristian shoots to his feet and runs to meet Mae. He doesn’t mean it, plan it, but when Mae holds out a tired arm, he feels himself pulled by a force he’s just starting to understand as his own heart into the waiting embrace. “You’re injured.”

“Just scratches.” But he sighs gratefully anyway as Tristian seeps some magic into him. “You know, Tris. You were right. That fey was a fickle bitch.” Tristian can’t bring himself to reply to that. He’s always found Nyrissa very consistent in her cruelty. 

 

They are a day’s hard ride away from Tuskdale and the roads are close to impossible to traverse. They are straining for a chance to reach home before the snow gets too deep. They are tired and snow falls thickly and by the time they realise they have trudged into an ambush, there is no back tracking. 

There is a log in the road and bandits rush at them with fire and pole-arms. The horses, hampered by the snow, rear and buck. Tristian, unused to horses and unable to maintain the focus to channel on one's back, hops off his animal to channel shields. He focuses on lacing Amiri in protective magic first; she rushes into their attackers, seemingly unhampered by the snow. Next, he moves his focus to Mae and starts to weave another shield. Then something hacks into his shoulder. He can’t feel one arm, but with the other he reaches for fire and whirls around. A light touch is all it takes and his assailant incinerates from the inside out. Tristian takes stock of himself, of his stupid fragile body. Blood is soaking his garments and his arm is limp. And there’s a dagger sticking out of his gut. That’s quite bad, he thinks hazily. 

He won't die, of course. He is in incredible pain and the world moves slowly, but he feels pretty detached about it. He has tried dying before and Nyrissa refuses to let him, so her lack of intervention must mean the injuries aren't lethal. It still hurts and it must look very dramatic from the way Mae is sprinting at him.

Mae is so much taller than usual! Then he stoops down and wraps one arm around Tristian, who realises he's on the ground, fallen. Red is seeping into the snow. He feels the air redirect around him and he hears thunder crackle and the sound of men convulsing and dying. Arrows whistle over them and hit - thwuck, thwuck, thwuck. Ekunday brushes swiftly past them, nocking more arrows. Mae’s voice sounds like syrup.

"If I pull this sword out, will you be able to heal the wound?"

Tristian thinks why not, and nods.

Mae takes Tristian's good hand in his own and moves it to rest lightly on his stomach. "Gather your magic, ready to release. Good. On three."

In the thick of the fighting, a huge explosion shakes them all and Amiri roars as her enormous sword cleaves two bandits in one swing.

"One... two... Three." Mae pulls the dagger out and Tristian tries to let fly the magic he's holding taut, but it feels like it slips between his fingers to fall limp as his body does the same.

 

 

He stares up into a canopied roof. Nyrissa looks down at him disdainfully.

"Foolish, clumsy skylark. Put some effort into surviving.” He sits up and the world is spinning, his heart feeling strangled. Empty and cold. 

“Your life rests on a knife’s edge. Should I pull you back or simply let you slip, I wonder..." She lightly touches his forehead with a talon-like finger and tilts her head. "Ooh my, someone has been a busy little bee. The boar is utterly besotted. How well you deceive for me, my songbird, my turtledove.” She strokes his hair and Tristian holds very still. 

"You have done better than I imagined. A little dagger, burrowing into his heart. Do you think your betrayal would break him?” She smiles as if thinking of something pleasant and lovely. “Continue. Get into his bed, if you think yourself able. I will call for you when I need you, my lark, and if you continue to do well… I may let you fly free."

“My lady… you’ve armies, and beasts and curses with which to take him down. You have the Everblooming flower. Please don’t use me in such a way. I guide him towards what you ask me to... won't that do?” 

Her smile has no warmth and she laughs, icy cold. “Coward. You think it less painful, less deceptive to simply tell him to walk into death than to be the dagger which wields it? I assure you, to him it will make no difference. You have already betrayed him. You might as well let him have something sweet to remember you by.” 

“I can’t-” He’s cut off as she wraps her fingers around his throat. They wrap around like winding ropes. She leans in.

“You will. Be nice, be pliant, be quiet, or I will more than clip your wings. I shall tear them out by their roots. Now, flutter off, my lark.” 

She kisses his forehead and then constricts his neck until the world goes black.

 

 

Tristian snaps back to reality, where Mae is cradling his body, hand clasped hard over his wound to stem the bleeding. Linzi is at their side, repeating "healing scroll, healing scroll, where did I put the healing scroll," as she frantically rifles through her pack. He vaguely registers frantic activity all around, but it seems the fighting is over. 

Mae looks down at him, startled, when Tristian places the hand he can still move on top of Mae's and releases a small burst of healing energy. Enough for the slice through his gut to knit together. 

His shoulder still bleeds freely but that's everything Tristian has to give. He passes out again, this time only to blessed quiet. 

 

 

Next, he's wrenched awake with a scream of pain. Disoriented, frightened, cold, he pulls fire into himself instinctively but Mae embraces him tightly and siphons the magic away. "It's fine, Tris. You're fine." He starts murmuring a sleeping spell into Tristian’s ear. 

Through the fog of pain and tears, Tristian realises Amiri has set his shoulder right with Jubilost watching closely. Linzi is hovering with a scroll in a manner that honestly makes him nervous. Octavia is pale, frowning at a tiny teapot which she is gently heating with magic. They are in a tent and it is snowing heavily outside.

"That looks about right." 

"Let me see, you oaf. If we heal it in the incorrect position, we'd have to tear the shoulder apart again to fix it."

"What's there to do wrong, tiny rat! You put the bone in the socket and that's that."

"The rotation of the bone must be-"

Mae's spell hits. Tristian sinks into slumber once again. 

 

 

It’s dusk. The snow falls gently now, but it is so deep outside, it is walling the entrance. Tristian sits up and blinks blearily. He is wearing his spare shift and he is bundled up in both his own and Mae’s blankets. Even so, he is freezing. The skin of his shoulder feels whole, but the area is wound tightly with cloth. The only other person in the tent is Jubilost, the gnome, who is watching him with scrutiny while pouring a mixture into a cup.

“You probably feel quite sore. This’ll take the edge of. No, hold it with your other hand or you’ll make a mess.”

Tristian sips it and coughs. Spicy. “Mae- where is Mae?”

“He took the strongest horses and rode off with Octavia to see if they could find a farmstead who might house us nearby. Ekundayo and Amiri are off hunting with some of your hale soldiers, and Linzi is seeing to the wounded ones. And I am keeping an eye on you. You’ll need to drink all of it, or it’ll be quite ineffective.” 

He obeys with a grimace and Jubilost hands him some tea to wash the taste away and warm his hands. The gnome instructs him to close the fist of his injured arm, and then to squeeze his hand with it. Tristian does not manage to put much strength into it. Jubilost grimaces at this. “Well, time will tell. You're past any danger of dying or outright losing a limb, at least," he sniffs. "You’re in a strange situation. Both precarious and enviable.”

“I struggle to think what anyone might envy about me right now.”

“Why, you’re stuck in a tent with renowned author, cartographer and explorer Jubilost Narthropple! There are people who would sell their livers and firstborn children to be in swap places with you, but that is not what I was referring to.”

“I’ve read your cooking book.” Tristian wobbles unsteadily and his gaze fixes on nothing in particular. “Mae will like you.” 

“He seems to like most people. He likes you particularly well, and that is what makes your situation an potentially eventful one. You seem like the painfully naive sort, so consider this; Many, many a ruler’s casual beau end up a head shorter, if they are granted an honest death. Many more simply slip down the stairs, or fall off towers. Maybe they grew too greedy, or too independent, or too irrelevant, or too old. If you are going to play this game, you need to go about it cleverly.”

“Nice, pliant, quiet,” Tristian murmurs. If Mae ever lops his head off, it will be for very fair reasons. The world tilts oddly and he sinks sideways into his blankets. “My apologies, mister Narthropple, but I will pass out now.”

Jubilost watches him with a concerned look Tristian thinks has little to do with his injuries. “If I ever pack my things and discreetly disappear in the dead of night, you should do the same.” 

“I can’t.” Tristian replies, and falls asleep.


	4. Shelters

Mae’s blood gifts him truth-dreams and a sense for magic. His truth-dreams have kept him dry, safe, alive, so when the vague, strange omens of his dreams line up, he listens. 

Not very many months ago, he dreamed of a crown. In the dream, he walked upon a dizzying, swirling path, taking a left at a fork to avoid a path of slithering ropes and nooses. Gates closed behind him and the ropes snatched, stretched to reach him, but could not.

And so it came to be that he stumbled along the streets of Jamandi Aldori's city one morning, drunk from a night of entertaining in one of its seedier bars, to run into a debtor and his hired muscle. Then, to the left of him, a guarded gate. Trusting his dream, he'd turned and walked towards it as steady and nonchalant as he could while so utterly sauced, and the guards at the gate hailed him.

"Are you here to answer Jamandi Aldori's call for adventurers?"

"Aye, that I am. A seasoned adventurer, Jamandi would be lucky to hire me!" Mae slurred, though he'd heard of no such call. But he certainly was a seasoned adventurer. 

"Takes all sorts, I suppose. Proceed, then."

"Hang on just a minute!" His debtor yelled and pursued, but Mae ignored him, sauntering towards the mansion, exuding the air of a man who belonged there. He could hear the guards posing the debtor the same question as they did him, and his flustered, angry shout of "I want nothing to do with that upstart's death trap! But that man owes me money!" The guards calmly replied that he could take it up with Mae once he was no longer in the employ of Jamandi Aldori and at that point Mae had entered the mansion, never to see the moneylender again. 

Over a lavish banquet, he managed to sober up enough to act so convincingly heroic, he inspired Linzi to write a book about him, but he went to bed with his rapier, remembering how the fine hallways had crumbled and burned in his dream. He did not sleep a wink.

When screams started ringing through the halls, Mae was ready and he knew well now his dream was true. He needed simply follow it and the promised Barony would be his.

When the slimy gnome gave him a ring, he recalled a slippery, tiny coiled snake which bit his finger, and he stashed the ring in a vase at the first opportunity and he did not trust the gnome again. When stopped by a wall of fire, he remembered a clock ticking, ticking, and so he dove straight through. 

When Jamandi sent him to lead his party through the stolen lands, Mae knew it was simply a question of time before that heavy, bramble-covered crown would rest in his hands, and he thanked whichever power had a hand in bringing such magic to his bloodline however long ago. 

In his dream, as he untangled the crown from the leaves and thorns, a skylark watched him from the bushes, eyes bright, curious, kind, and warm yellow like the yolk of an egg. It chirped softly, watched him struggle for a bit and saw how the thorns bit. Then it hopped onto his arm to gently pull thorny brambles aside, away from his skin as Mae worked and eventually, the crown came free.

He found Tristian at the temple of the Elk, messy-haired and injured. As Tristian spoke his gratitude in his soft, gentle voice, watched him with his golden, bright eyes, Mae knew he’d found his lark. A necessary component to his crown, if his dreams are right. So Mae kept the priest close. With reservations, for a couple of days. But soon, gladly.

And then suddenly, he can’t be without him.

Now he holds Tristian and feels his quiet, humming life become softer and softer, and he doesn’t think about crowns anymore. His hands are covered in blood. Snow and pale garments stained deep red. Everything smells of iron and he can’t think for the shouting and the noise of swords clashing. 

He doesn’t think about anything until Tristian stirs in his hands and a tiny but resonating whisper of life weave through them both. 

 

When he’s certain Tristian is not in immediate danger of death or dismemberment, he takes the strongest horse and rides to find a farmstead with Octavia. He’s well traveled by now and recalls one, not too far away, though the usual landmarks are so much softer in the snow. Snow and wind is whipping them and he’s doubtful they’ll survive merely hunkered down in tents.

They find the farm within the hour and settle for telling a white lie; it seems more likely they be regular travelers, rather than risk disbelief by claiming the land.

Octavia, who has the advantage of not being orc-blooded, knocks on the door. It opens almost immediately; these people have seen them and are prepared to tackle whatever is being brought up their path.

A rugged man stands in the doorway and his eyes immediately fix on Mae. Though he is holding an old, battered short sword, he hesitates. A broad-shouldered woman, his wife, perhaps, stands behind him holding an axe.

“Strange time to be knocking on doors,” he mutters at them. 

“Ah, good evening,” Octavia starts. “We’re travellers from Brevoy come upon unfortunate times, and have come to beg shelter of you. We have a traveling party of ten or so people and we were hoping we might cram into your barn.”

The farmer spits on the floor, hefts his weapon. “I know who you are, m’lord. Seen you during the harvest feast in Tuskdale. We don’t take very kindly to lords and ladies just taking things as they please. We’ve carved out our own lives here, no thanks to no baron. We’re very capable of carving up some people, too, if it gets to that.” 

Mae steps forward, shielding Octavia with his form. “Ah, then I must apologise. I did not wish to deceive you, but people are understandably a bit reluctant to believe orc-blooded men on their doorstep claiming they’re the baron of the land. But having attended our harvest feast, you know that I generously care for the people who’ve eked out their lives here well before my arrival, and can reward you very handsomely for the use of your fine barn. I’ve gravely injured people and the weather is taking a turn for the worse.”

He hears a creak from above and glances up to see someone aiming a crossbow at him through the upstairs window shutters. He does his best not to flinch. 

“I don’t particularly wish to lend you my barn, tell you the truth. You’ve not turned up with your soldiers and commandeered our property, so we’ll do you the courtesy of letting you leave unharmed. We’re not awful folk.”

Mae puts on his best just and concerned ruler-face. It’s a performance like every other, though it’s a role he’s not quite got the natural looks for. That’s why he’s got Octavia, who is pleasant, approachable, and looks the part. 

“You’ve suffered long under the stag lord’s tyrannical rule, so I understand your reluctance. But I must beg for your kindness. Though I have hale people with some healing arts, I need some time for them to work and a dry place where my wounded are less likely to catch their deaths from the elements. We will be on our way as soon as the weather clears up and we can all travel.” 

The farmers exchange a glance when he mentions healing arts, and they shift. Nearly imperceptibly, but this might be the hook of his performance.

“We’ve not stocked food to be entertaining more than our own people, begging your grace’s pardon…” the wife hesitates. 

“We’ll provision for ourselves, of course. All we ask for is shelter. I’d owe you a great debt. One of my wounded is my personal healer.” 

“We’d be hard pressed to find someone as skilled to serve your grace,” Octavia chips in. She’s bright, catches his twists and hooks quickly. 

The farmers look at each other, silently contemplating. “I’ll clear space in the barn for your people. How many, did you say?” 

 

The daylight crawls away from them and in the dark, everything blanketed in snow looks the same, but Mae’s always had a good sense of direction, and a quick scry to rely on, failing that. Soon enough, the lit torches of their quickly cobbled together camp appear across a snowy dune. Octavia lets out a relieved sigh behind him. 

They pack their camp fast, abandoning the tents for swiftness as the wind picks up. Ekun has felled a deer and they truss it up and tie it to one of the horses.

Tristian seems disoriented and sleepy though this. Mae carries him, still bundled in blankets, and places him carefully in the sled and Tristian blinks at him blearily.

“Mae. Need something?” 

“Not right now. How’re you feeling, Tris?” 

“Thin. Gone,” Tristian hums quietly. 

“Well, you’re tough for such a skinny man but this, uh, gone-ness worries me. Can you sit? No, that’s a no.” Tristian tries to obey but tilts sideways immediately. Mae pulls Tristian’s hood over his head, makes sure the blankets cover everything. There’s a strange glint to Tristian’s eyes and his hair and skin seems… wispy. Paper thin. He touches Tristian’s cheek to dispel his worries and the skin feels there, normal. Cold, soft, and beneath, a familiar susurrus of divine energy. 

He lets his hand linger a bit longer than necessary, perhaps. Tristian curls his own fingers into Mae’s hand and sighs. “Sunny.” 

Jubilost jumps into the sled and rearranges a few things. “I dosed him with a sleeping draught. He won’t be of much use to anyone for a few hours. He shouldn’t really be conscious at all… Of course that good for nothing apothecary in Riverford was selling stale ingredients.” 

Mae wants to scream. Instead he manages, gritted teeth, to hiss, “I should thank you not to drug my healer, ser gnome.”

“Your sweetheart would have done the same, if he’s any good,” Jubilost sniffs unperturbed by Mae’s scorn. “Healing such large amounts of tissue damage drains huge amounts of energy from the body of the injured. Not to mention the blood loss and pain.” 

Mae knows little of healing and much of the art of blagging. He is not sure how much the gnome knows of healing, but he knows a fellow blaggart when he sees one. 

“Did you know snails have no bones,” Tristian chimes in, very pleased. Jubilost gives him an odd look and pats his shoulder. 

“This is not the ideal situation to be sleeping through.” 

“Is it an ideal time for permanent damage instead? Regardless, he’s fever free, as you can no doubt tell.” 

Mae withdraws his hand, feeling hot round his ears all of a sudden. “Well, it’s definitely not a great time to reveal a weird, previously unmentioned fascination with snails.” 

“Noo, it’s because… Mae, you did not understand my jest. Their boners can’t be killed. Because they have no bones.” Tristian murmurs. 

“That’s a joke with absolutely no punchline, and bones and boners are unrelated anatomical features. I’m still not explaining it. Look, just… sleep. Jubilost, this better wear off quick.” 

Two more of his soldiers, too injured to ride or walk, are put in the sled. The Baron’s party make it to the farmstead, though the wind and sleet is relentless and their sturdy horses are dragging their hooves through the snow with tired huffs. 

The farmer watches them warily as Mae’s shambling group file into the barn. It’s large, but Mae sees no animals at a glance. And it’s well built. It’s chilly, of course, but there’s not much draft. He has certainly slept much worse places. 

“I’ll thank you to leave Betsy alone. Cranky old nag.” A single horse huffs at them from a stall at the far end. “Used to breed horses, but the Stag Lord’s people kept stealing them. Haven’t got the old business back on its feet yet.” 

“I could stand to establish a steady supply of well bred horses for my soldiers. I’ll pay you for your kindness as you think is best, but come spring, we should talk business.” 

“Yeah, yeah…” The farmer mulls. He does not truly believe it. “My wife was thinking it’s inappropriate to make a baron sleep in a barn, and wanted to offer you a room up in the main house.” 

“Then I thank her for your incredible hospitality, but I shall sleep better knowing my people are settled and doing well.”

“Thought as much. Well then, please don’t burn my barn down, your grace,” the farmer inclines his head slightly and hunkers down to slog through the snow, back to the main house. 

Around him, his soldiers and companions are already efficiently settling horses, despite their injuries. For a moment, he wonders what he’s done to deserve these people. Staring blessings in the eye for too long never turns out well, though, so he lets the thought slip and lifts Tristian, now soundly asleep, out of the sled to settle him in a quiet corner, before he helps stable the rest of the horses. The wounded soldiers put together some sort of meal from the rest of their rations and the slain deer. The evening passes, uneventful. Mae wakes Tristian and he manages to eat and drink a little before he passes out again. Then Mae plays cards with Linzi, Ekun and Octavia until he can’t hold his head up anymore and they all crawl to their sleeping spots. 

He settles next to Tristian, who wakes at his stirring and sits up, taking in his surroundings blearily. A gentle, soft light hovers over Octavia a few steps away, illuminating a scroll she is pondering. Just enough of the light reaches them that Mae can see Tristian blink in confusion at the dark rafters. Now that everyone has settled down in the darkness, the howl of the wind clawing at the barn is unsettling, loud. 

“We’ve borrowed a barn from a local farmer to wait the weather out. How are you feeling?”

Tristian slowly moves his gaze to Mae and his movements are stiff, but he seems… substantial. The wisp-like feeling from before is gone. “I feel fine. Mae, I… hope we’re not doing this for my sake; I should be fine to ride.” 

“We had more injured people, and the weather was barely traversable as it were. And I would… gladly hold up for your sake. Back there, I thought you were dying and I… well, it struck me that I would not… like that. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I lost you.” 

Tristian’s shoulders go rigid at the admission, and he looks away. “I’m unimportant. You have more important things to worry about.” 

“I do have things to worry about, but I can’t face them all alone. You give me strength,” Mae whispers.

Tristian bites his lip at that. Watching Mae quietly, he shuffles a bit closer. “Mae… did you lose your blanket?”

“Suppose I did.” Mae wrapped Tristian in both of their blankets before riding out to the farm, but in the dark he does not think Tristian can tell, and he needs Tristian to stay warm.

“Share mine, then? It’ll be… warmer, too.” Tristian shuffles, loosening the blankets Mae’s tucked him into to throw one end over Mae. 

“… You sure that’s fine?”

“It’s just sensible.” Even in the dark, Mae can hear the terse blush in Tristian’s voice. Octavia sneezes in a way that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

Mae stifles his own chuckle and slips into the offered shelter. Blessed warmth envelopes them both. Tristian brushes a feather light touch over his hand and he feels a soft, almost imperceptible wash of magic searching out injuries. He brushes his thumb over Tristian’s palm and their hands curl together as Tristian sighs softly and nestles into his chest. Mae tentatively wraps his arm across his waist, mindful of any tensing or discomfort, but Tristian melts into him butter soft, as his breathing turns to that of slow, deep sleep. 

Mae lies still, listening to the howling weather and Tristian’s quiet, even, safe breathing for a long time, before dreams take him, too. 

 

He dreams of a golden lark in a cage. Its eyes are pale, milky white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoy... writing the cheese. Thank you for reading! 
> 
> I like the idea of healing magic having practical costs, rituals and consequences rather than being a "poof, you're ok for freebies now!" sorta ordeal.


	5. Body, brittle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some sorta mildly sexy times at the end, just a heads up if that's not for you.

Mae wakes to someone tapping his leg with the end of a bow. 

“You said we should wake to hunt. Now is the best time to hunt,” Ekun says quietly. 

“Great time to hunt,” Mae says, though his head is hammering and his body feels so heavy. He crawls to his feet and pulls his boots on. 

Tristian is already up. He hands Mae a carved wood cup and the warmth and scent of tea is a gentle balm on Mae’s sleepy soul. Tristian is dressed in the simple and unbloodied spare shift they changed him into after patching his shoulder together, and Mae’s blanket thrown about his shoulders. It’s strange to see his face not obscured by a hood, but Mae quite likes it. His hair is surprisingly long. Some of it is stained dark with yesterday’s blood and just thinking about that makes Mae feel like he is choking and he puts a hand on Tristian’s healthy shoulder to reassure himself.

“You’re to take it easy today, Tris.” 

“Of course. I… ah, found your blanket. Seems I had it all along.” Tristian tilts his head at Mae with feigned confusion. 

“Oh, look, there it is. How strange.” 

Tristian shakes his head, but a small smile is tugging on his lips. “Ah. Mae.” 

They organise into three hunting parties. Jubilost and Mae head one, Amiri another, and Linzi and Ekun a third. Octavia happily volunteers to ‘look after’ the remaining injured soldiers and Tristian, though no one is in such a state that they need looking after, any more. “Trudge about in the freezing cold or snugly drink tea under blankets? We’re definitely getting the best deal, here,” she grins. She and Tristian are melting snow for drinking water with careful spellfire. 

“Bet we’ll hunt more than your parties combined,” Amiri brags and hefts her enormous sword. It is gleaming sharp, but it’s not a precision tool. 

“With that sword? That’s a bet I’ll take,” says Mae. “I’ll put 10 gold on it, in fact. You in, Ekun?” 

“We hunt for survival, not sport.” Ekundayo frowns. Then he smirks slightly. “But… Linzi and I will win.” 

Mae grins, tests the string of his bow. It’s not his favored weapon, but magic is too messy for there to be anything left to eat. “A blessing for luck, Tris?” 

“That’d be unfair.” Tristian crosses his arms. “And besides, I hope Amiri wins so that she may finally pay me back those silvers I lent her.” He puts on a stern face, but he fails to stifle a playful smile.

“I told you, I used those for good things! You’re such a goody-goody, I can’t believe you’d begrudge me that.” 

“You spent them on drink, Amiri.”

“Yeah! Good drink!” 

“Let’s get moving, hunters, or we’ll loose our window.” As the others move out, Mae quickly catches Tristian in a one armed, sideways hug, pulling them out of sight for a bit. Tristian turns to face him and relaxes into his arms in a way that is starting to feel satisfyingly familiar. “Take it easy, remember?” 

“I remember.” Mae feels Tristian’s magic weave together and as he places a fingertip to Mae’s forehead, divine energy suffuses him. “A blessing for luck, then, if I cannot be useful otherwise.”

“You don’t have to be constantly useful to earn my regard,” Mae murmurs. “I find you delightful just… being yourself.” 

Tristian meets his eyes with quiet contemplation. Then their noses bump together a bit clumsily before their lips brush, just barely, softly. Every instinct in Mae’s body wills him to push further, to show Tristian how- but he’s entertained for coin for years and is fuzzy on what’d be considered a normal pace for an average person, let alone someone as gently reared as a priest raised in a monastery. 

They break the tentative kiss and stare at each other. Tristian is beet red. “I- I’m sorry, I’m overstepping.” 

“Not at all, I’ve um… I’ve wanted that for a long time,” Mae hurriedly reassures him. He’s wanted a whole lot more for a long time, but he’ll settle for what he can have.

“Ahem!” Jubilost coughs from the doorway. “I believe we have a bet to win!”

“Sir gnome is competitive!” Mae grins. “I’d stay with you and kiss some more, but…” 

“Go. I’ll be here when you return,” Tristian smiles. 

 

 

That is a lie.

When the hunters are gone, Tristian finds the lark-embroidered cloak Mae gifted him bundled in the sled. It is not as blood-soaked as the rest of his garb, but there is a large gash in the fabric. He borrows needle and thread from Octavia and mends it rather shoddily, but it’ll keep the cold out for a bit. 

“I’ll go into the woods and see if I can find some roots.” 

“Tristian! Mae told you to take it easy! I know he’s being a bit of a mothering hen, but I think he’s right about that.”

“I know,” Tristian replies guiltily. “But I loathe sitting about idle. Besides, the sun is rising and I should like to offer thanks for our survival. I promise I won’t put myself in danger, Octavia.” 

Octavia puffs her cheeks and Tristian thinks she will refuse to let him leave. “I journeyed on my own for a long time before I met Mae. I can take care of myself.” 

She puts her hands on her hips and nods. “Allright, but don’t be gone long!”

“I won’t,” he smiles beatifically, and slips out the door. 

 

And so, Tristian runs away. 

 

He ambles to the treeline with a slow, casual gait, but once he’s certain he can’t be spotted from the barn, he picks up his pace. 

It seems the quicker, more merciful thing to do. Mae will be ok soon enough; he has good friends to rely on and he is easy to love. It’ll hurt him, but surely it’s better to get it over with. 

Nyrissa will kill him, though. Quite painfully. He’s no stranger to pain, by now, but oh, what lengths he’ll go to, avoiding her all-consuming wrath.

And death… the thought is dizzying. 

He could try to run from her, too. It’s a long, nearly impossible shot, but if he’s quiet as a mouse… if he never sleeps… Ah. No, human bodies must sleep. So inefficient. He stumbles in the snow and ponders on how legs are inefficient, too. 

The sun is rising. Its light is glorious, skimming the snow topped trees. He’s overcome with hopeless fear and twisting guilt and already tired and chilled to the bone. He can’t run. His stupid, mortal body will succumb to the elements before sunrise and his soul will wink out to slumber in the Lady of the Grave’s coffins for eternity. Just the thought is strangling. But going back to the people he’s deceiving, back to Mae… Tristian kneels in the snow and whispers a plea.

“Sarenrae, all the paths ahead of me seem wrong. Please… show me how to untangle the web of evil I’ve twisted myself into…” 

But he feels no recognition, no warmth, no clarity or purpose. His prayers are only heard by snow and rustling trees and he drowns in despair and loneliness, the ghost of a first and last kiss.

 

 

When he returns to the farmstead, the sun is high in the sky, and he has managed to dig up a few edible roots for the sake of authenticity, though he squirms to think of it that way and decides it is just nice to be useful, instead. 

Mae walks briskly towards him as he emerges from the tree line. His hunting party are outside the barn, gutting an animal and Mae still has the bow slung over his shoulder. 

Mae is striking. The sunlight illuminates his black curls in a coal-like glow. It cascades wildly like a lion’s mane. His build is slim, compared to Kassil and Regongar, his tusks not as pronounced, but he still towers over most humans. He exudes safety, calm. It’s easy, Tristian supposes, to feel attracted to someone bigger when you feel so very small. 

“I was just about to go out and find you! Octavia said you went for a walk, but she wasn’t expecting you to be gone for so long-” He touches Tristian’s hand, then folds it into his palms and rubs it while he exclaims with dismay. “You’re freezing! What part of ‘take it easy’ did you interpret as ‘better gather some roots in the freezing snow while recovering from being stabbed in the guts and having my shoulder hacked apart?’ Am I gonna have to sit on you for you to rest? Because I will sit on you.” He envelops Tristian in his cloak with an embrace and Tristian hides his face in the crook of his neck as Mae’s body heat seeps into him. 

Tristian is both relieved and ashamed by how nice it feels. How safe. 

He could… tell Mae the truth.

“Mae, I…” 

No. What a stupid, selfish, cowardly thought. Beautiful, selfless Mae. He’d certainly help, and die. A mere thimble of his true self, it is easy to think Mae larger than life but Tristian was a deva, shaped by ancient, wise Sarenrae herself to fly swift and strike true, and Nyrissa still tore him apart and put him back together to suit her whims. Mae cannot know the truth. 

Mae is watching him with an expression that grows more and more concerned as Tristian flounders. He waits, always waits, when Tristian cannot find the words for something, struggles with explaining his feelings. But Tristian can’t explain anything this time. “Are you feeling unwell?” Mae finally asks, placing a couple of fingers on Tristian’s forehead. 

“Yes… No! Just- cold. I… lost my bearings for a bit and it unsettled me. I- I am… glad to see you.”

“Snow’s deceptive. You’re fine now, you made it home.” Mae rubs his hands over Tristian’s back, kisses the top of his head. “Let’s get you inside and warmed up.”

 

 

Ekun and Linzi win the bet.

Amiri huffs and makes a fuss about them cheating. Jubilost pretends he does not care. Mae does not.

They abscond to the hayloft. Mae heats snow in a basin and helps Tristian rinse yesterday’s dried blood from his hair, cleans where it sticks and flakes on his body with a washcloth, and changes the wrappings on his shoulder. Tristian can take care of himself, but… it feels strangely good, letting Mae do it. It feels soft. The wrong is already done, is it more wrong to accept some freely given comfort? 

Maybe. He finds it difficult to think about when Mae touches him. 

“You’re always quite bundled up. I thought it might be a faith…” Mae speaks quietly, waves his hand ponderously and settles on, “a faith thing. I’m surprised you let me do this. That you’d let me see you. Touch you.” 

Tristian blinks at him as he pulls his shift back over his head. “My body is no more me than my garb is.” 

“That’s a strange way to think about it.” 

“Is it? We’re souls, not bodies. When we die, we discard our bodies.” Or, perhaps we have been weightless and winged for centuries before we get saddled with such burdensome shells, Tristian thinks.

“Well… if you discard your body before your death, then your death will come fast indeed. But I think they must be connected, hm? When someone injures you, it doesn’t just hurt your body, it makes you feel hurt in your soul, too.” Mae touches Tristian’s forehead gently. 

“Which makes a body a burden and detriment on the soul,” Tristian argues. "To be overcome and ignored so that the soul may be lighter." 

“But when someone touches you gently, doesn’t it make your soul feel happy, mended? You feel that pleasure, the same as you feel pain.” 

Mae watches him mull his words over, patient. “I… suppose.” Mae is the brightest soul Tristian has met and he lives, feels, uninhibited. His wants are so clear. He touches, with his mind, with his body. And when he holds Tristian… does that not make him feel like things could be fine, if he could just see the right path?

Does Mae feel happy, mended, when Tristian touches him? The thought is both terrible and, selfishly, horribly, amazing. 

Tristian tilts his head into a second kiss. It’s tentative, soft, clumsy. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Linzi lent me a book on this but it was… very bad,” he huffs as they break apart.

“I thought that was Nights in Katapesh you were reading. One of my favourites, that,” Mae grins. “We should compare notes. Why didn’t you like it?” 

“It seemed very… forceful.” Tristian frowns. “I don’t think I can do that. I don’t like that… done to me. If that is love, if that is how it’s supposed to be, then-” Tristian chokes, recalling a thousand mirrors reflecting his own failing light back at him, of struggling against strangling, seeking vines. Of broken limbs he heals when he is alone. Of curious, grotesque creatures that stare at him, run their hands over useless, limp wings, dig their fingers into his feathers though he screams and fights until they hit him across the face so hard the world rings like bells. Of being locked in dark rooms, alone for… he doesn’t know. Years, he thinks. Singing quietly, hoping for a choir to answer. Of fearing loneliness so much, he stops recoiling from the touches. Of gentle caresses that suddenly turn into searing violence until he is whittled away, reformed to be so small, so brittle. How easy it is to cut his own throat, how much blood pools onto the marble. How he panics; he can't die, why did he do that, he can't, he can't- How Nyrissa laughs as she pulls his life and body back together. 

Mae is watching him with a look that slowly grows concerned. “If anyone’s hurt you, Tris, I’ll kill them. Mercy be damned.” 

You could not, Tristian thinks tiredly. It has happened already. It will happen again. “It was… far away from here.” 

Mae nudges their noses together, rubs his hands soothingly. “It’s a shitty book and nothing will be like that. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“I… want to.” Tristian kisses Mae again. It chases the other thoughts away and he supposes Mae must be right that kind touch is mending.

He feels Mae smile into the kiss while he cups his face gently, brushes his fingers through Tristian’s hair. Tristian imitates his movements tentatively. Mae’s hair is wonderful to touch, thick, soft. Mae pulls Tristian into his lap and lets his hands slip under Tristian’s shift to draw lazy circles in his lower back, stroke slowly along his spine, as their kiss deepens. 

Tristian feels hot coals flaring in his gut and his heart and he shocks himself when he instinctively melts into Mae completely. He feels Mae’s hardness rub against the cleft of his behind and claps his hands over his mouth to swallow noises as Mae gingerly slips a hand between Tristian’s legs and rubs.

Mae whispers softly, “Too much?”

Tristian shakes his head, feverishly warm, hides his face in the crook of Mae’s neck. Stifles a whimpered moan in his shirt as Mae slips his trousers down a bit and wraps a calloused hand around Tristian, stroking him gently. The coals in his belly coil and writhe and then he goes boneless as the coils unfurl into waves of pleasure and he comes in Mae’s hand.

 

Tristian tries to return the favour, but he is both weakened, tired and inexperienced. Mae helps, closing his hand over Tristian’s soft, smooth fingers and rubs himself to a quiet finish with a few expert strokes. He wipes his sticky hand on the washcloth and pulls a discarded cloak over them both, before they fall asleep in the hay, fingers and limbs tangled. He dreams of flowers, growing on each side of a mirror and though he torches one, the other stays hale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean for this barn time interlude to be so long but apparently I just really like writing rambling griping and whining and domestic crap. I still have stuff for one more chapter of this oh god.
> 
> My take on Tris is that he is well meaning but trapped and desperate. I also like the take that he's a deceptive, manipulative coward. I think, perhaps, he can be both.
> 
> Thank you for reading; I mostly write this for me but um, it's very very nice and good if you enjoy it too!


	6. Opposites

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is just ... fluff and porn. Enjoy.

Their days pass slowly in the little barn.

They are cold, and they hunt, they play cards, and they sleep. 

They have a few lean days. 

And yet, there will come days when Mae wishes life was this simple.

 

On the second day, the farmers reveal their reason for letting them stay. They’ve a bedridden child, pale and gaunt. Tristian does his scrying spells and frowns and Mae knows from this there isn’t much left in her. But he also knows Tristian will try anyway. Jubilost comes too, that first day, shakes his head and leaves again. 

For the first three days, Tristian spends hours weaving slow magic until he is pale and woozy himself. Mae comes along, most of the time, and Octavia and Linzi occasionally swap hunting duties to go along. Mae learns much of horse rearing from idly chatting with the farmers, and Octavia snares hares which she trades with the farm wife for jam pots and dried tea leaves. Linzi tells stories to the rest of the farm hold, many of whom are just on the cusp of adulthood, and they listen with breathless, rapt attention. Mae mends clothes, undoes Tristian’s shoddy stitches of the travel cloak, and hides the tear with an embroidered fern. It is not as skillful as the golden larks, but Mae has much practice in the art of rescuing clothes and Tristian is delighted. 

On that third day, Jubilost joins them again. “You’re a man of uncommon stubbornness, Tristian.” Tristian smiles, and they quietly discuss herb mixtures that might help. After a while, Tristian resumes working spells and Jubilost grinds dried herbs into a fine powder on the kitchen table. He instructs the mother to feed the girl an amount with her food, and leaves. 

On the fifth day, the girl stays awake for the entirety of one of Linzi’s stories. On the sixth day, she sits up. On the eighth day, she is walking. As they leave the farmhouse, there is a little bounce in Tristian’s step and Mae catches him in his arms and kisses him deeply. They loose their balance and tumble in the snow, giggling like children.

To pass the time between hunting, sleeping, melting snow and chopping firewood, Mae’s soldiers play cards. They teach Octavia, Amiri and Tristian games. Octavia takes to it like a fish to water. Amiri is bored with it as soon as she’s looked upon her first hand of cards. Tristian never gets the hang of the basic rules. 

Though Tristian and Octavia are very different, their friendship grows as well. Octavia is whip smart, a tad cheeky and ever the opportunist, but Tristian seems impervious to her occasional huffs and barbed comments. In return, she has much patience for his moments of confusion and blankness and Mae watches them go from friendly acquaintances to close confidantes over the course of their little stay. It is good to see. He recalls both the guarded, calculating eyes of the slave, and the withdrawn, simpering priest from when he first met them. He saw fellow survivors who’d fight with all the tools at their disposal in them both, intimately familiar with how those tools aren't always ferocity and violence. 

Every night, Mae shares blankets and heat with Tristian. They quietly weave their fingers together, finding new ways in which they fill each other’s empty spaces each night. 

 

On the twelfth day, Ekun returns to report the roads seem traversable. The child, now a bit rounder in her cheeks, waves at them from a window as they leave. It’s a rough ride home to Tuskdale, home to baths and down beds. 

 

There is much to catch up on. When the words of the reports start to blur and Valerie no longer makes sense, Mae holds a hand up and deems they ought to put a pin in this. Octavia has long since dozed off, snoozing quietly with her head propped on her arm. Tristian has propped a book open in front of her, as if this would hide anything. The book is upside down. Valerie throws them both angry glances and Tristian smiles back at her brightly, innocent as a candle on a cake. 

As the rest of his advisers file out, Mae catches Tristian’s eyes and waves him over with a subtle hand motion. 

“I did not realise the book was upside down until it was too late to turn it. I think I rather insulted Valerie…” Tristian whispers.

“You think? Well. She could use the laugh,” Mae says in a normal tone of voice and Valerie treats him to a piercing look as she leaves. The two of them are alone now and Mae takes Tristian’s hands, stroking them with his thumb. “Circumstances in the barn were a bit odd, but… I’d be delighted if you’d continue to share blankets with me. I’d hate for our closeness to slip away.”

Tristian looks away uncertainly for a moment. But then he meets Mae’s eyes and nods. 

 

Mae's rooms are comfortably appointed. They consist of a sitting room, and a smaller bedroom which can be sectioned off with a large, folding door. When it is open, it is rather as if the two small rooms is one large one. He rarely bothers closing it. The sitting room has a smaller door, opening up to a little balcony overlooking the gardens, and during the day the sun cascades in. Now, it is dark and cold and heavy curtains are covering the windows to keep the chill out. The greatest of his luxuries is a large bed with heavy posters. It is piled with blankets and soft down pillows, and embroidered canopies keep the heat in on frosty nights, obscuring the world outside. 

A small marble staircase is carved into an alcove of the bedroom, leading to a washroom where a gentle stream springs forth from a natural cavity in the stone on top of which his castle is built. Little decorative tiles have been laid there, in the patterns of seaweed and fish and lusty mermaids. The water is cold, but a touch of magic heats it comfortably. 

The furniture of the sitting room is lavish and beautiful. There is an elaborate and comfortable seating area in front of the fireplace, and a dressing area somewhat obscured by a carved wooden screen. While Mae would like to blame it all on the necessity of presenting a bit of a regal image, the truth is that he simply revels in the luxury. 

Tristian looks about and seems just a touch skittish. “It is a bit more than a blanket.”

“It’s a bit different from your drafty loft in the chapel, I suppose. I pay you well enough that you could afford something nicer, you know.” 

“I like the draft,” Tristian says airily. "And I don't... like being by myself. It's nice that Jhod is there."

“I’ve slept in enough drafty barns and sheds and outhouses to last me a lifetime. I don’t know how you don’t catch a cold.”

“Outhouses?” 

Mae seats himself on the edge of the bed. “Long story, darling. Now, I’ve dreamed of being alone with you for weeks, but in my head you were wearing a lot less.”

A faint blush creeps into Tristian’s cheeks, but he brushes his hood back and shrugs his outer robes off. Underneath is a cream tunic with golden embroideries at the hems and Tristian leaves it on in favour of slipping his trousers and smallclothes off in a move that is almost seductive. Mae bites his lower lip and Tristian steps towards him, between Mae’s spread knees.

Mae brushes his hands along Tristian’s sides, pulling his hips flush to his own groin and Tristian slowly pulls the cream tunic up over his body before he discards that, too. The firelight catches in his pale hair, a bit mussed up. A strand of it sticks to his lips and Mae brushes it away carefully. 

“Hmm. Putting on a show, sunlight?”

“I’ve learned some things from watching you. Like… The necessity of performance. The importance of little gifts and favours. Of not just helping, but also, um… giving.” 

“Quick study, you.” 

Tristian does not answer but Mae is surprised when his fingers deftly, slowly, undo his belt and slip under the fabric to stroke his dick.

“Gods above and below, you are a little minx.”

“Octavia gave me some pointers…” 

“I’m gonna send her some flowers and give her a raise.” 

“Please don’t! She’ll no doubt try to slip me more tips. It is mortifying.” 

“Nothing you’re saying or doing is convincing me that’s bad.”

Tristian sinks down on his knees and he nuzzles Mae’s crotch, kisses the bulge of his dick tentatively before he coaxes it to spring out of his trousers, erect. He takes the tip of it into his mouth and Mae lies back in the velvet bed linens with a contented sigh, happy to let Tristian explore. 

He is clumsy, but eager and Mae is pent up enough that it doesn’t take him long to build to a peak. He coaxes Tristian’s mouth off his dick with some regrets, cups his chin. “You want a mouthful?”

“Of… what?” Tristian meets his eyes, confused. 

“Thought so. Naw, come into bed and use your hands, hm?” Mae coaxes Tristian into his lap, tips him off balance so that he tumbles into Mae’s chest with an undignified squeak. Mae wraps a hand around Tristian before he can reorient himself and gives him a few quick strokes. He feels Tristian’s breath hitch in the crook of his neck. 

“I’m supposed to be pleasuring you, not-” 

“Oh? Better stay on top of things, then,” Mae laughs and gives Tristian’s asshole a little prod with the thumb of his free hand. Tristian gasps in surprise and and Mae feels his dick twitch in his hand as he comes. Mae takes advantage of the moment and rolls them around, so that Tristian is on his back under Mae now. He strokes himself to his own finish and seeds Tristian’s pale belly. 

Tristian is still regaining his composure while Mae cleans his stomach with warm water and a cloth. He looks like the most sumptuous whore money could buy, sprawled and golden-haired and milk pale and flawless on Mae’s rich, red satin and velvet sheets. But then Mae lies down and Tristian settles flush and comfortable next to him, and he feels ashamed at the comparison. Tristian is his and only his, for the prize of a heart.

 

That morning, Tristian attempts to leave early and slink away, undetected by the servants. But the next night he sleeps in Mae’s bed, there are two cups and two buttered sweet breads on Mae’s morning tea tray, along with his usual pot of tea.

Tristian is shaken by this and eyes the golden bread like it is a poisoned knife they have found lodged in Mae’s door. “Mae, I am deeply sorry, but I do not think I have been as discrete as you might have wished. I did not want to cause you a scandal-” 

Mae laughs at him and Tristian gives him a hurt look. “Oh, darling. I apologise. Take some tea with me, and I will tell you a few secrets.” 

“I am certain nobody saw me,” Tristian insists shakily as Mae pours him black spiced tea and sweetens it with honey.

“Well. I do not pay fools. It is their job to know who comes and goes and when the comings and goings become unusual. And when the chambermaid finds blonde hair on my pillows, she certainly does not think they belong to me. Is it so upsetting to you? That people know we’re involved?”

“I… don’t wish my association with you to harm you.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Tris. I am hopelessly attracted to you for completely nonsensical, romantic reasons and I did not simply seduce you because you’re the textbook effigy of piety and pretty civility. But it is, you know, a bonus. Our association, as you put it, is a wonderful prop to my whole benevolent baron performance.”

“I don’t… understand.” 

“Well, I am orc blooded, and you’re…” Mae gestures at Tristian in general and Tristian looks down at himself as if he truly does not know what to expect. “You’re approachable. If I’m the spicy, strong tea, you’re the honey and milk that sweetens it. People see me sitting on the throne of a land known for chaos and lawlessness and they’ll expect the same old soup. People like you, and Linzi, and Octavia broaden my… appeal, as it were.” 

“You appointed me as your councilor because you think I look pretty?” There is no indignation in Tristian’s voice, simply curiosity. He tilts his head at Mae and silky, blonde hair tumbles over his shoulder. Mae idly brushes his fingers through it.

“And because I knew you’d be good at it. Being a baron is very much like managing a stage play. An actor may be handsome and an actress may be kissable, but if they can’t do the job well, they don’t help the performance.” 

“I have seen that you bring much hope to people with blood like yourself, Mae.”

“Oh, yes, but I need both kinds of appeal to build a functioning barony. To add to that, I… used to, ah, entertain, privately, before all this. A somewhat grimy past, for a baron. I expect all that to resurface eventually. I am quite certain the Surtova family have dug it up already and hope to sway me with it. So when they do, I’ll need a heavy counter to stay unleashed. So… it may serve me well to have close bonds with someone pious. I’m a reformed man, blah blah, all that gibberish.” 

Tristian is watching him with a steady gaze, though there is a slight furrow in his brow.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you this, there just wasn’t a good time.” For all of Mae’s confidence, he cannot meet Tristian’s eyes entirely through this, though his voice is steady and he folds his hands nonchalantly.

The silence stretches on for some moments. Tristian is watching Mae in a way that is remarkably composed, but Mae can tell there’s a question on his tongue. 

“You don’t understand what private entertainment means, do you?” Mae finally asks drily. 

“Um, playing music in people’s homes?” There's an uncertain lilt in Tristian's voice. Like he already knows that is probably wrong.

Mae exhales slowly. “No. No, I’d have sex with people for money.”

“A-ah.” There it is. Tristian lifts his tea cup to his face to hide his spreading blush. It is just a small cup, so it does very little. 

“Well, I used to do many different things. I’d sing, juggle, dance on tables. And then fuck. It was very varied. I was part of a little theater for a couple of years.” He gently takes Tristian’s cup out of his finger and places it on the ornate table in front of them. “Poor Tris, I think you’d find those performances utterly unwatchable. They paid me shit all and half a potato though, so I went independent. There wasn’t much other work for me to find, since I didn’t particularly want to be a soldier. People don’t really hire orc blooded ones for much else. So I did… that. When it was necessary. Sometimes when it wasn’t necessary.” Mae shrugs.

“I think I… understand.” 

“So I do not fear ‘associating’ with you openly. It won’t harm me.” 

Tristian looks reluctant. “Do you mean associate in the same way you mean entertain?” 

“Like fuck?” Mae asks with a flourish and Tristian makes a face. “No, I mean to be honest about my feelings for you. Hold hands, if that is not too daring. But the fucking is private, I promise.” Tristian makes a face again. “We’ll just tell people we pray a lot. They’ll believe it. You don’t like that word, huh? Fuck.” 

“It’s just… vulgar.”

“It’s descriptive! What would you call it, hm?”

“I don’t know!” Tristian squirms. 

“Do you find my past upsetting?” 

“The church of Sarenrae does not condemn such things.” Tristian’s voice is steady and deliberate, though the colour of his cheek is deep red. 

“And you?”

“I... It sounds like a hard life…” 

Mae leans over Tristian for a kiss. He tastes like spice and honey. “It made me hard quite often, I won’t lie.” 

Tristian squirms again and hides his face in his hands. Mae tangles his hands into his golden hair. “Oh, Mae… You shroud yourself in jests.”

"Painfully poignant as that is, you hide in your own performance, too. You're utterly careless about your own comfort and health but you play ever the sweet, mindful healer, hm?"

Tristian does not answer. When he does not wish to confront something, he deflects and distracts and spouts vapid religious scripture. Mae knows full well what he’s doing when Tristian kisses him, gently scraping his fingers along the back of his neck. But pushing Tristian too much has never resulted in anything but a quiet, sulky retreat, so Mae tips him onto his back and slides his long under-tunic up, nipping at the soft flesh of his belly. He has just given Tristian his own difficult truth; he hopes, in time, that Tristian will feel brave and safe enough to follow suit. 

He slips the tunic over Tristian’s head and discards it on the floor. Since they have just arose from bed, he’s wearing nothing else and Mae revels in simply watching him be bare, be his, under him. He strokes along Tristian’s shoulder, where there is but a faint scar, and kisses the ghost of the stab-wound in his belly. No scar remains there, but Mae can still see it vividly. 

Then he wraps his hand around Tristian’s hardened dick and gives it a little squeeze. “This is a boner, by the way.” 

“No!” Tristian claps his hands over his mouth, and then whispers, mortified, “I asked Jhod what a boner is.” 

Mae laughs, but manages to hiccup; “what did he say?” 

“He said to ask you, you exasperating-” The sentence is cut off with a surprised moan as Mae takes Tristian fully into his mouth, pressing his nose to the sparse, downy hairs of his groin. As he teases Tristian, his luminous, strange, beautiful Tristian, to frustration and pleasure on his luxurious recliners, Mae reckons one could get used to this.


	7. Breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a rambly thing and I've tried to tidy things up a bit... but I like this chapter a lot like this and I hope you like it too!
> 
> Btw I absolutely welcome constructive feedback!! I'm trying to get better at this :'-)

Tristian has no recollection of being anything but light. His long life, as he knows it, starts as a dew drop slowly unfurling in the palm of the lady Sarenrae. He knows, in that moment, that he is a soul reborn, though cleansed of memories, mortal attachments. He knows it is the way it must be, so that he may be a flawless vessel of her will. He knows, in that moment, his purpose. He knows how to use his wings even as he flexes them for the first time. He knows that he loves the lady Sarenrae with all his heart, who cups him in her palm and smiles gently.

Tristian knows in that moment that he never wishes to disappoint her. He knows that he is brave and obedient and strong and swift.

He also knows that he is small and not a warrior like he ought to be and that he wishes to hide in her hand forever. He knows he should not be feeling like this. If the first beat of his wings is more tentative, more slow than it ought to be, the Lady’s smile does not falter, and he is reassured by this. Of course he isn’t small, of course he is a warrior. The Everlight created him, so how could he not be perfect.

 

He disappoints her. Of course. He knew from the start that he would. Somewhere inside him there is a flaw, a crack. Light refracts all wrong in him. 

 

And now he questions. Spurred, no doubt, by his feelings as Octavia chuckles at him and calls him friend, as Jhod calls him son, and Mae calls him darling, dearest, sunlight. Now Tristian wonders, sometimes, of his previous mortal body and blood. Did he have friends? A family? Did he wield a sword or did he lead a simple life? Did he have a lover? Someone dear, wiped from his mind like writing in sand? Is that mercy? It squeezes his heart to consider that he may have forgotten someone he loved as much as Mae, but… He wishes, occasionally, that he could just sweep his hand through the sand of Mae’s memories, wiping away his own footprints and just… disappear. Causing no harm, no ripples. 

He’s not supposed to think of what he was before. But these days Tristian does a lot of things he should not. He does it every time Mae brushes a gentle thumb along his lips, pulls him into another embrace. Every sweet touch comes with a sting of shame. No doubt every kiss will deepen the hurt he will inevitably cause. 

But intimacy is so instinctive and there’s such a deep, chilly despair settled in his bones. It flees for a moment as Mae runs his calloused hands down his bared spine, along his flanks. Hides for a bit when Tristian kneels between Mae’s knees and takes him into his mouth and forgets what he’s done, to be fearful, ashamed. It is the only time his breath feels like it reaches as far into his body as it ought to. 

He doesn't remember when, exactly, he loses his wings, but he remembers his first breath. 

The way air brushes his wings, rustles his feathers as he flies at blinding speeds. Body made of light and sound and fire. Then suddenly air is rushing through the windpipes of a mortal body, all sinew and flesh and heavy bone, trapping him. His existence shrinks and he can't grasp the choir, can't hear the Light. He hears only himself, his small instinctive breaths for air, sees only his pale palms, scraped and stinging with pain where he's caught his own weight, falling to the ground. Blood oozes to the surface of the skin, welling out, and he panics, chokes on the air which he is used to masterfully navigating. How are you supposed to breathe when you take in so little? 

Nyrissa makes short work of him. He learns much of pain, much of the limits of bodies, much of the limits of minds. 

She revels in her new pet, for a while, and her attentions are relentless. He learns all kind words and touches are swiftly followed by pain. He ought to keep fighting. But he learns obstinance leads to more pain. And he learns that submission and placid obedience bores Nyrissa, and when he bores her, he can slink away with just a few bruises to lick, rather than a broken bone or a dislocated limb.

He is a warrior of sun and fire. He’s also cracked and flawed. There is much he ought to do, trapped and cut off like a dead limb. He does not do it. He thought himself worthy of more than what his lady of light asked of him? Oh, he is barely worthy of his wings.

He makes mistakes often enough to always deserve pain, and Nyrissa isn't the only creature in the cold, dilapidated mansion. When she ignores him, she does not care where he goes. She can always find him. But when he does not wear her leash, the other fey of her court are a greater danger. He is small amongst them. Small inside himself. He hides often, in her gardens, where the great, bright flowers remind him of nebulas, of suns. The small ones are like far away constellations. The way their roots weave is almost reminiscent of a deva’s choir. The light bounces through morning dew, hanging off petals like the prismatic decorations of the grandest of the Everlight’s churches. 

He likes flowers. 

Of course she corrupts that, too.

Then she decides to throw him into the path of her enemies and Tristian fears the unknown danger of that more than he fears Nyrissa. He begs and pleads. Fool. He should have known this would simply invoke her glee. Her servants instruct him on what lies he is to tell, and when he fails to remember, fails to tell the lies convincingly, he hurts, drowns, suffocates, until the lies roll of his tongue, smooth and slippery, unobtrusive like the little silver fish in her ponds.

Then she throws him to Mae. 

 

Tristian takes all his lessons with him, but mortals are nothing like fey, and Mae is nothing like anyone. Here, fire burns hot (and will hurt him, he learns, the hard way) and rain is wet and cold, and a kind word is just a kind word. A kind touch does not lead to pain. 

Mae is kind and funny and generous. Tristian responds, at first, with blase, distant platitudes. The kind that makes the attention of his new mistress roll off him like a drop of dew on a leaf, lets him stay relatively unharmed. But it does not make Mae's eyes pass him over and the first few times he fails to shake Mae's attention, he squirms and frets and worries over every single word uttered. 

Mae never touches him with anything but kindness, is never less than patient even when the others think him naive and foolish and weak because he fumbles with his new existence. Tristian softens so stupidly quick. Unlearns all the lessons Nyrissa taught. He ought not to.

Yet. He's a creature made of something as malleable as light. Even in this body, that is the truth which sits in his heart, even if his light falls a bit wrong. He’ll fill the space he is given. He has always been softer than a deva ought to. The lady Sarenrae is judgement and redemption, balanced. Tristian has always carried the healing light easier than the sword, and it doesn't take him long to fall into the benevolent devotee act with geniunity. 

So the full weights of his wrongs start to hit. The victims are no longer faceless. This is the man he is hurting. These are the people who will suffer.

The first time his body is wracked with grief and tearful sobs, he does not understand. A little part of him wonders what in this strange body has broken now as his heart squeezes and his breaths become ragged passing the hurt in his throat. He has seen tears, but he did not think they would hurt. 

 

As the snow melts and gives way to flowers, as sunlight kisses yellow fields, and then as the leaves redden and start to fall, Nyrissa leaves him be. No doubt she keeps a tally of his proceedings, but she does not haunt his dreams until it is harvest-time. 

After all, who knows to let what you sow grow in peace better than a nymph.

 

It is not that Tristian forgets who truly holds his leash. It is the first thing that stings him in the morning, it scars every sweet moment. 

It’s a lie he desires. To belong to Mae, to be truly his. The few moments he manages to discard the truth, it feels almost as good as flying in the Light again. Different, slower. But right. And for that summer, that little summer of so little pain, he slips into the lie until it almost drowns him. 

But what a sweet little life to drown in. For each day which passes, for each kiss, it becomes easier and easier to live the lie fully. 

 

He sleeps with Mae in his lavish down bed more often than he sleeps in his own simple loft in Jhod’s little church. It has little to do with the beds; Tristian dislikes the heavy canopy curtains of Mae’s poster bed, and the way they make his heart squeeze when the fabric hangs loose, enveloping them in thick drapery. It is well enough when they are awake together, or even when he falls asleep before Mae, but when he lies awake alone with his thoughts, the space is tiny and strangling.

When he does not spend the evenings with Mae, Tristian sleeps in a small room in a hastily built little church, a good stone’s throw from the still growing castle. The worship of Erastil is strong in these lands and the church mostly sees his followers, but there are a few shrines to other gods and goddesses, too. Like Sarenrae, Erastil is a practical god, his clergy practical people. It's easy to blend in here. He has a friendly relationship with the other priests, shamans, devotees and monks who frequent the building, founded on their common goal in providing healing and clerical service to the people. He is not the most experienced or learned in the ways of mortal bodies amongst the healers here, but he has a raw force in his channeling of positive energy which the other healers can’t match, and occasionally they call upon him to help with difficult healings. He likes helping, and takes the opportunity to learn as much as he can from the people he works with.

Tristian observes few rituals, being no real priest. He says quiet morning prayers to Sarenrae in the open air, offered to the rising sun. Then he lights incense on Erastil's shrine to offer thanks for sheltering him, and then he lights incense on the other shrines too, to offer thanks for the care these gods and goddesses give to their people. And then he lights a second incense stick for Desna, in Mae's name. This, he does every morning, whether he wakes in his own drafty loft or in Mae’s arms.

His loft is sparse, but he can breathe here. 

Tristian does always come back to Jhod, though now the old man is often as busy as the rest of Mae’s makeshift court. But when Mae's frantic way of living is not something Tristian can keep up with, Jhod always seems to have a quiet moment for Tristian.

It has been this way since the beginning, since he was merely a traveling priest, and Mae was merely an adventurous spirit, and their base was a little trading post and there was no Tuskdale.

It is Jhod who makes Tristian understand that the love he feels towards Mae is more than it ought to be; though it is not Jhod who deems it so. 

Back then, on the road, nothing follows a pattern and all of Mae's companions are loud and opinionated. Everything that happens is clear. Eat, rest, travel, fight, heal wounds, don’t get killed. Tristian observes quietly, speaks when spoken to and not much more. They simply think that he is shy and quiet. It is easy to fit in. 

When they are resting in the trading post, everyone scatters and the clarity of what he should be doing becomes muddy. So Tristian gleans much of what is normal by watching Jhod. 

Mae comes to Tristian sometimes, pulls him away to discuss something, or to pick roots for the lady of the trading post's stew pot. Mae is busy often, always something to plan or do. Tristian is of little consequence to his life and yet Mae finds ways to fold him in. He puzzles over this. And he is glad. And then that puzzles him, too. 

Tristian is sweeping the floor in one of the small houses turned wayside shrine when Jhod helps him sort out that puzzlement. Mae saunters in nonchalantly and Tristian smiles to see him. The orc-blooded man is dangling a flask of golden liquid from his fingers and his hair catches copper gleams when the sunlight from outside frames him.

"Mae. Do you need something?" 

"Do I need something to see you?"

"I... do not know. You always seem to do something or need something, but I suppose you do not have to. I like your company."

Mae grins. "Then take a break with me." 

"Oh. I have-" Tristian looks at Jhod, "chores to do…" 

"Take a break, boy," Jhod chuckles and Tristian feels distinctly like he is missing a piece of a puzzle.

"Oh, well... thank you." 

Mae throws an arm about his waist. Tristian finds that he's stopped feeling tense and heavy when Mae touches him. He feels a different sort of tense, a fluttery, tickling feeling. "I'll be by after, I need to talk to you about some local oddnesses, Jhod." 

"Yes, yes, I will see you." 

The two of them sit in the sun, behind the shrine house. They share a flask of pressed apples and Mae hands him a sweet bread with fruit baked into it. He asks him of his past, his life. They are innocent questions but Tristian has no truths to tell him. His little silver fish, his lies, swim easily across his tongue, yet they feel odd. It's not difficult to tell Mae of the small, abandoned, strange child in a foreign land, because Tristian feels he has much in common with that fictional child, but Mae's sympathy is hard to stomach. Mae must notice his reluctance to talk about the subject because he lets it go fast.

It's easier to talk about faith, because that, at least, is earnest. He learns that Mae lights his offerings in the name of Desna, though perhaps he does not light them often. It is as if he expects Tristian to chide him for it, but Tristian has few rituals, himself.

"I think faith has much to do with how you live your life, and you worship that way. I pray and light incense, but I suspect that I am pleasing my goddess best when I help people with my healing arts. As you please your goddess in your freedom, singing and adventures, no doubt."

Mae, for once, has no quick answer to this. "You're an unusual one," he says, finally. 

It's... nice. To just sit, be together, touched by the sun. 

They walk back to the shrine together and Mae has a quick chat with Jhod while Tristian continues sweeping the floor. And then, before he leaves, Mae takes Tristian's hand in his own and brushes his knuckles gently with his thumb. "Thank you for your company. I am grateful to have you with us." Tristian is too surprised to reply quickly, and then Mae is gone, off to arrange something else. 

"Ah..." Tristian looks at Jhod, who looks back at him mirthfully. "That was strange."

"He is smitten with you," Jhod says calmly.

"Oh! That's- that's odd. Isn't it? I-I don't know about such things," Tristian stutters but he can see that Jhod is right. The thought feels ticklish, not unpleasantly. "I'm unremarkable and he is... so eloquent and beautiful- that is to say, I've noticed- never mind..." Tristian is quite sure he is red as a raspberry now and resumes sweeping with some vigour. 

"Is it fair to assume the feeling is mutual?" 

"I… think we are not alike at all." 

"Are you not? Well... Not in some ways... He is very bombastic, you are quiet and contemplative. But you are both in possession of kind hearts and diligent spirits." 

"Someone like Mae would quickly be bored with someone like me."

"Sometimes, the heart is attracted to differences. It looks for someone to walk a path with, someone to take your hand where you waver. For someone to complete you," Jhod says mildly.

How can Tristian be incomplete? He was shaped by Sarenrae herself. But of course he is incomplete. He knows he is a bit wrong. If he was flawless, if he behaved as she intended, he would surely not be here, sweeping floors in a body of flesh and blood while Sarenrae seems deaf to his pleas and prayers. 

And yet. Mae is smitten with him. Mae, who sings along with Linzi in the firelight, holds bracing speeches from the top of tables, tells outrageous stories of exciting exploits, faces beasts fearlessly and unites their disparate group with patience and compassion. 

Mae, who makes Tristian forget what he is.

It's pointless. He has nothing to give Mae, not even himself. 

He's sure a multitude of feelings must pass over his face because Jhod chuckles. "Ah, son. Perhaps his spirit yearns for someone to balance his own loud ways. Perhaps yours yearns for someone to pull you out of your quiet. Who knows. You don't have to figure it out. Simply let things happen and see how you feel about it."

 

Many months later, the first morning Tristian comes home from the castle, he expects Jhod to still be asleep. He enters the shrine from the back door which leads into the small kitchen, and closes the door very quietly. But Jhod is awake, stirring a pot of what smells like porridge over the fire. He watches Tristian mildly.

"The baron must have fallen quite ill, if he needed you all night."

"I..." Tristian does not know how to continue. The silence stretches on and he squirms, no doubt red-cheeked again. 

"He may be your lord, but I believe he'd respect your refusal." 

Tristian studies the floor. "I had no wish to." 

Jhod nods at that, and returns to stirring his porridge. 

 

The church of all-worship consists of a large room in which several small shrines are sectioned off with decorative paper walls. In the middle sits the largest shrine, dedicated to Erastil, domineering God of the region; a large pair of antlers is mounted on the wall and white deer are painted on the altar. 

There is a small shrine to Sarenrae along the wall, too; her worshippers in these lands are few. In this town, Tristian could count them all on one hand. But Tristian takes some comfort in the mortal rituals of lighting incense in her name and Jhod makes the point that the chapel should be welcoming no matter what good faith you align with, though he shuns worship of darkness and chaos. The silhouettes of white doves are painted on the altar, and glass beads hang above it, reflecting light when the sun hits them just so. It is not much, compared to the intricate mirror mazes of the Kelesh churches Tristian has seen in his flights, but he takes a certain pride in it nonetheless. 

Behind the chapel room, there is a small living quarter. A tiny, but quaint kitchen with a hearth, a small table and some stools. This leads off to a washing room, and a few small sleeping chambers. Jhod has one of these but Tristian finds them dark and small and had so visibly balked at them, Jhod had suggested he perhaps sleep in the small loft above the kitchen. 

The loft is small, too, and quite drafty, initially meant for storage space, but there is a small alcove overlooking the courtyard. Tristian sleeps here, when he is alone. He has few things of his own, though Mae seems to be drowning him in gifts recently. 

Most of the objects in here are things Mae has brought on the occasions he pops up to see him. A few woven rugs, a small shelf for his books and notes, a little chest for his clothes. Heavy cloth curtains which stop some of the draft. A small table and a couple of chairs, and a small, painted teapot. Some cushions.

Tristian is not ungrateful for these things. It is just that he does not think to acquire such things himself. As he shivers or sits crosslegged on the floor skimming books and writing notes on paper laid on uneven wood planks, he simply accepts and endures. Mae scoffs at such things. He is a baron now. He will not endure such things, and neither will his companions. 

 

Little by little, Mae makes space for Tristian in his own chambers, too. He'd make more space. He wishes, truly, to make the rooms theirs, but this is a dance which requires two participants. 

Tristian could move his few belongings and simply stay with Mae every night. A few times, Mae suggests it subtly, but he never pushes for it. He knows to toe the line of what Tristian will withdraw from and Tristian feels the line shrink, bit by bit. He needs a token distance, something he mustn't cross, a small thing to not be ashamed about when his betrayal inevitably must happen. 

So he decides on space, quite literally, and carefully cultivates that little gulf remaining between them. 

And he needs that lonely loft. It is his to return to when he can no longer pretend to be fine, when his despair becomes overwhelming. Somewhere to hide when he tires of his mortal mask. 

Nevertheless, Mae slowly and carefully lays the planks to bridge his half of the gap. 

It starts when Mae puts a comb on the table on the side of the bed Tristian usually sleeps one morning, too fine toothed for Mae's thick curls. "I leave your hair a mess often enough, darling," he murmurs and runs a hand through Tristian's locks. 

Occasionally, there will be a book on his pillow, or dried tea herbs in dyed little bags tied with silk ribbons. Simple jewelry.

Then there's the clothes, which is not surprising, because Mae loves clothes and often laments Tristian's lack of wardrobe. To Mae, clothes are costumes in a performance, and he picks every outfit he wears with much deliberation. He considers his court fellow actors and it is not so odd that he would costume them, Tristian figures. Mae has taken him to a few plays, and he has seen glimpses of such things while flying. 

Tristian is happy to let Mae pick outfits for him; it is one less thing likely to reveal him as a stranger.

Mae becomes more and more comfortable interfering in his wardrobe when Tristian seems grateful for it. None of the new clothes Mae has tailored for him have bird-embroideries, though Tristian loves the winter cloak with the larks. Most of all he loves the green fern which Mae has mended the damage to it with. 

A few of the garments have subtle embroidered boars, which have become the crest of Mae's court. All his companions and advisors wear a boar brooch clasping their capes, when they go about doing Mae's business. Tristian likes the boars. It is another way in which he can pretend to belong to Mae.

The colours Mae present Tristian in are usually reminiscent of a warm summer day. Deep honey golds and pale creams, bright blues and deep greens. The cuts are loose and flowing, if a bit more nipped in than what he had himself. He never chose those things either; it was Nyrissa’s fey courtiers who garbed him to throw him into Mae’s path. Mae never tests him with the tight-fitting tailored garments he prefers to wear, and Tristian is glad of it. Though they look dashing on Mae. 

Tristian is not the only one whose wardrobe Mae makes a few additions to. Valerie is the only one to escape it; Mae does not do things which would be ill received to the people he loves, and though he complains that Valerie is a stick in the mud, he loves her as well as his other companions. 

If Tristian is honest, the garment he has appreciated the most is a simple, white night shift. The hems are laced with green leaves and yellow flowers, and the fabric is soft. It seems like a garb just for him, for them, not for a performance. As they read, quietly entwined in bed, as Tristian brushes his hair in the morning and Mae runs his hands through his golden locks. As Mae runs his hands up his calves, thighs, fabric softly sliding up his body in a way that makes him feel like a knot, all tight for Mae to tie loose. 

He wears it the first time Mae kisses him deeply while he smooths a slick potion into his bottom, enters his body with a finger as they kiss and Tristian cannot, for the first time, swallow his whimpers. He pleads for Mae to take him, but Mae does not claim him entirely. Tristian senses he is waiting for something.

 

It’s a good little life to drown in, and so he does. And so when the handiwork he planted starts blooming around him, he nearly does not notice until it is too late. It knocks the breath out of him, entirely.


	8. Cleansing fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! It has been a little while! 
> 
> This chapter has a fair bit of canon-typical violence and some sex stuff vaguely mentioned.

"I hear troubling things in your streets, Mae."

"People will always say troubling things, my dear." 

"They will. And yet, I regret I need to bring this to your attention, for I do not think these people will stop at simple talk..."

Tristian has no mind for strategy or subtle politics. Yet, his hunches are usually right and so Mae considers his information carefully, even if he does not always act in as direct a manner as Tristian suggests. 

"Let's hear it, then." 

 

 

And simple as that, the boar is snared.

Nyrissa is mistaken to command him like a mortal. She has not commanded him to aid the Kingdom or to kill the baron. She has simply asked Tristian to lead the baron to a trap. He can do that. He can also help someone out of a trap, should they happen to fall into it. It would he suspicious if he did not.

Tristian is frightened of Nyrissa. The thought of toeing the line of her commands makes him shudder. So he decides to not think about it.

 

The trap is worse than he expected. He had not considered the amount of people the Kingdom of the Cleansed has snared. He cannot think how to get Mae out of this without bloodshed before common folk with pitchforks and torches mob them, emboldened by their numbers and spurred on by Nyrissa's other servant. Tristian does his best to shield and heal as his companions cut and slice and burst spellwork at the mob, attempting to keep them away. But then they are overwhelmed. He feels like he is drowning again. If Mae dies here, they will all be ripped apart with him and there will surely be riots and sacrifices and so many dead. Tristian reaches for fire and in a panic drops a great, writhing flame into the mass of people, using the last of his concentration to weave the flames so that they do not burn his allies.

The mob is scattered in fear. Everything smells of burning cloth and flesh. In the chaos, Mae's party charges forward and seizes the upper hand again as many of the common folk loose their bravery and run. Still, there are some who remain to fight, enough to pose a challenge, enough to soak the grass wet.

In the chaos, Tristian is concentrating on lacing Regongar in a quick healing spell one moment, and the next he looks about wildly and finds that he has strayed from his companions. He pulls his scimitar in time to counter a slash from a shovel. He does not need to fight its wielder; a quick flash of flames in his other hand is enough to send the poor man running. Then Tristian locks eyes with Nyrissa's mad priest and he knows, whether he is punished now or in his sleep tonight, the punishment will hurt. 

The cultist priest lunges with an infuriated shriek. Tristian deflects the blows from his heavy sword once, twice, with metallic clangs that jolt him to the core. There is nothing wrong with his skills or reflexes, but this new body does not have as much as a thimble of the strength he had when he was fire and light. 

The third time he parries the fervent lunges, his sword goes flying and lands in the mud with a wet thud. He tries to grasp at fire again, but before he can even touch it, his opponent rams into him.

He is grateful that Mae has shown him how to wield a dagger, as the mad man pins him to the wood of the stage with the weight of his body, and Tristian just manages to free the little knife from its sheath at his belt and sink it in his guts. He has learned much from working with the healers. He knows exactly where to stick it. The resistance of his blade sinking into flesh is sickening and the warm blood that spills over his hands even more so. Nyrissa's mad servant clings to Tristian's clothes as strength leaves his body. His bloodshot eyes stare at him, not with fear or pain, but with such seething, burning hatred. "You will pay for your betrayal. She will... know," he rattles, but then Mae is there. He rips the cultist off Tristian and throws him to the ground. 

"Arrest him. Are you fine, Tris?" Mae's eyes sweep over Tristian, hands steadying him. 

Tristian realises he is shaking, breaths small and choked. "I am unharmed. I will be fine in a moment, I just... so many pointless deaths. My apologies, but I think you are arresting a corpse..." 

Amiri, having already tied the cultist's hands, kicks the body over. "Yeah, that's a corpse. Nice stab. Coming from soft hands and a tiny baby knife, that is."

"Enough dallying." Valerie sheathes her sword and returns to her horse. "The remaining criminals are getting away. We must hunt them down and put them to the sword for this treachery." 

Tristian puts his hand on Mae's elbow. "It would not help. You can slaughter all the peasants on this side of the river and it won't do a single thing to uproot the true problem. They are merely troubled men and women running scared."

"That's something, coming from a priest who just toasted said troubled men and women," Regongar laughs, wiping his sword on the cloak of a corpse. 

Tristian feels a wave of queasiness roll over him. 

Valerie frowns. "It was them, or us. But his lordship can discard such useless drivel and start ruling, if he wishes this sort of nonsense to cease. A firm hand would-" She goes quiet as Mae holds a hand up.

"No. We won't be riding down helpless peasants in the hills for fun."

"Thank you." Tristian sighs and twines his fingers into Mae's hand.

Valerie bristles. "I am not suggesting this for fun! If you allow cultists and murderers to do as they please-"

"Surely this carnage is enough warning." Mae sweeps his hands across the clearing. The trampled mud is littered with dead bodies. There is a tang of blood and scorched flesh and in the air. "We will ride for home, and set up camp as night falls." 

 

 

And so they do. 

Mae usually sends Tristian picking roots and setting snares, while he himself hunts. It's nice. Sometimes, if things go well and quickly, they take a moment of quiet to kiss and touch each other, hidden by trees and grass. But perhaps Mae means to be kind and give Tristian some rest and calm, or perhaps he thinks Tristian too weak and shaken, for tonight he sets him to helping Jubilost prepare the food and takes Amiri hunting. 

Tristian feels a pang of something, but does not argue beyond mentioning that his experience with preparing food is limited. 

He does not say that he has never cooked anything in his life. That would likely be suspicious.

Jubilost does not trust him to do anything difficult. The gnome sets him to chopping things, with clean a knife that was not inside a man just some hours ago.

Valerie and Regongar are hanging about, keeping watch. But they are well tucked away from the road and Octavia is clearing their tracks, so Valerie must feel safe enough to start picking fights. 

"He listens to you because you have seduced him with your honey words and nonsense smoke and sunlight." 

It takes Tristian a moment to realise that it is him she is talking to. He gives her a questioning look. Her tone is grim and he might have felt somewhat threatened if it weren't for the fact that Valerie is embroidering an elaborate flower into her cloak.

Meeting his eyes, she continues; "If you have any sense, honour or honesty in you, priest, you will keep your idiocy to yourself. Religious griping has no place in the affairs of governance." 

"I have seduced him?" Tristian laughs softly at that. "You think so poorly of the baron you have vowed to serve? Mae has no need for me to be his moral compass. He is purposeful, compassionate and merciful by nature." 

"No. He was a careless prankster before you started twining him around your little finger." Valerie's nostrils flare. Tristian is not entirely sure why prim, proper Valerie would prefer Mae the prankster, but he keeps quiet, concentrating on finely cutting Jubilost's herbs. She continues, after a few moments. "He desired you the moment you met, that was as plain as daylight. I do not know if it's your trickery or his foolishness, but you take advantage of it."

"I'd take advantage of it too. That chest, those biceps, that ass," Regongar hums. Valerie and Tristian both ignore him. 

"I suppose it is easier to be angry with me than disappointed with the man you vowed to serve. But I think you misjudge his grace, and minimise your own impact on him."

"Why should I think he is anything but the man I set out on this journey with? I was there from the very start. And what hope do I have to balance his rashness, when all you need do to undo my work is take his hand and tilt your head?"

"I think he does a bit more work than that, in the sheets at night," Regongar rumbles. 

"Cease your foul prattle, we are having a serious discussion!" Valerie waves her needle at him.

Tristian pays Regongar no heed and takes their moment of bickering to considers the question for a moment. Valerie has been more abrasive recently and he hesitates to draw conclusions, but her behaviour change co-incides with her acquisition of the scar which now runs along the length of her face. Tristian has never commented on it and does not think it his place to do so. 

"I'll share my observations, then. My first one is that his grace considers all the advice he receives and I have never observed that I have swayed him, neither with words or... actions." 

Valerie scoffs and Tristian decides he can probably not change her mind about this, so he continues. 

"My second observation is that Mae wears masks. Now, he is wearing the mask of the ruler, rather than that of a cheerful adventurer blowing in the wind. I was there for some of that, too, you'll recall."

Valerie gives him a begrudging nod.

Tristian continues after a moment of hesitation. "Though he joked and seemed not to care, did he not always help, always seek the merciful solution even then? He threw himself into danger to save me, a stranger. That is the Mae I first met. He made jests even as he ensured I was well. He saved my life and offered me safety. And he kept doing so for all who looked to his aid. His actions have never been unpredictable, though the role he is playing may change." 

Valerie says nothing as she turns her grim gaze back to the forest.

Tristian sighs. "We do not need to fight, Valerie. We serve the same good man, in the end. I am glad he has someone as steadfast as you by his side," Tristian says mildly. 

"Flattery and fluttery eyelashes will get you nowhere with me, Tristian."

"It is the truth. It brings me peace that he is surrounded by people who will him as well as you." He does not entirely manage to keep his voice steady as he continues. "I suspect there will be some who do not." 

They sit in quiet for some time. Regongar seems bored with their discussion. Jubilost is concentrating deeply on his cookery but Tristian has no doubt he is listening. He sticks his nose in everything.

"I suppose you are right about his behaviour, when I consider it," Valerie relents. "I apologise. We serve a reckless man. Your naivety further enable his impulses, but you do not deserve my ire. You have ever been loyal." 

Tristian can only smile stiffly at that, his mind revisiting the trap he led them all into mere hours ago.

Jubilost claps his hands and puffs of flour float in the air. "You did not cook much, in the temple you were raised in," he states while surveying his handiwork. The way he emphasizes 'raised' makes obvious his doubt of Tristian's story. 

"The monks practiced asceticism," Tristian replies calmly. "I lived as they lived." Tristian had thought he'd be more flustered in the face of suspicion, but Jubilost seems to regard him as a harmless puzzle to solve. It has become a sort of game. Kaessi can be much more abrasive about it, when the mood strikes her. 

The gnome pinches his chin like he is assessing the believability of this information. "Does your current life as a baron's lavishly favoured lover not fly directly in the face of that?"

Tristian considers. If he were really a priest, this probably would bother him, but it is much too late to weave in this detail now. "Well, as I lived as they lived, now I live as you do. I was raised to serve merciful Sarenrae by deed, not vows and ritual. And it would be disrespectful to Mae to deny his kindness."

Jubilost nods and looks at him, like he has passed, for now.

Regongar snorts. "Reckon you just tasted the sweet honey of life."

 

Mae and Amiri return with a few snared hares. Jubilost surveys the catch with some displeasure, but in the end concedes that it will do. 

That night as they retire to their tents, Tristian apologises to Mae without words as he kneels between his legs and takes him into his mouth. It does nothing to lift the guilt and shame in his heart and he has trouble falling asleep, though Mae kisses him and strokes him to completion after Tristian pleasures him. 

They lie quietly for a while. Occasionally, Tristian still thinks he can smell a faint tang of charred flesh and cloth and he startles, but then the sensation goes away. Usually, Mae has no difficulty falling asleep under any circumstance. A result of a life constantly on the move, Tristian supposes. But Mae sits up after a while and summons a dim little light, reading a book from his pack while stroking Tristian's hair. After a while, he softly asks; "Do you want a sleeping spell?" 

Tristian does not want to sleep; his dreams will not be peaceful. He shakes his head.

He senses that Mae wants sleep. He also senses waves of worry as Mae goes back to his book and continues to pet Tristian soothingly. It does very little to alleviate the stone of guilt in his belly and when he finally drifts off, it is with some relief.

His dreams are very painful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't want to like, retell too many moments from the game but I really like this moment because in hindsight it's so obvious that Tristian manipulates you into it and it has this painful moment of you just having to slaughter a bunch of civilians and I imagine its probably the first big moment of Tristian actually seeing and feeling the cost of what he's doing first hand. 
> 
> Nobody is having a good time except Reg. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
